“Except Hercules.”

“That’s right, Pablo.”

As they explored the footprint, Pablo’s expression grew more disbelieving. Before going to bed, he made a calculation on his computer, last year’s Christmas present from his absentee father.

“Grandpa?”

“Yes.”

“If that really was Hercules’ footprint then he must have been seven thousand, five hundred and fifty-nine metres tall.”

This evening, Senator Zamora continued to dwell on the feat accomplished by Pablo’s machine. He had reached the age of seventy-five without having anything to do with the technology crowding the shelves of Calle Real. How much – but Señora Criado had entered the room to serve the next course and was speaking.

“But that’s wonderful!”

“What is?”

“That you have decided to become President of the Bullfight.”

“Yes, señora, yes, I have decided after all.” He had decided at Cap Spartel. He wanted to impress his grandchild. “I will tell the Governor tomorrow,” he said, contemplating the dish before him. “Señora Criado, what is . . . ” His moustache became a broom sweeping down the corners of his mouth. Steady, he told himself, steady, you can’t ask orange trees for figs.

She clasped her hands together and with great pride said, “Bacalhau.”

Salted cod. Jesus Hercules Christ. The hairs stood to attention on his neck. Why hadn’t he sacked her? He should have sacked her years ago, but Minerva, his dear wife, had forbidden him. Now it was too late. He achieved a smile. “Thank you, Señora Criado. But isn’t it a bit chilly in here?”

Señora Criado closed the window onto Calle Zamora and returned to the kitchen. So her master was to be President of the Feria in August! She would tell Don Ramon tomorrow. And Honorio in the market, and Marie Amaral. Perhaps Periclito would come back for it.

She looked back at the Senator through the kitchen. She saw his thin face, his thick moustache, his long grey hair that curled behind his ears whenever he visited the baths below the Club de Pensiones. By what accident of fate had she not been born her employer’s grandson, to be spoiled and indulged by him? Every man suspected his wife of desiring an affair with Senator Zamora, but Señora Criado knew he did not have affairs. She knew him for what he was, a gentle, learned man who would eat the sand on Playa Benitez before he was false to his principles.

Senator Zamora picked up a fork and prepared to face his cod. There had been a moment in her third year of service when Señora Criado had set fire to the kitchen. He might have acted then, but she was Portuguese, and were not the Zamoras, Abyla’s oldest family who arrived with Henry the Navigator and who boasted among their descendants not only a physician who had cured Sancho the Fat of his obesity but also the great quinologist, Leopoldo Zamora, were not they too originally Portuguese?

“Señora Criado,” he said at last. “I forgot to ask on Friday. What is that smell?”